


The Dusk Descending

by LDhenson



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Reign of Fire (2002)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Dragons, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, New York City, Post-Apocalypse, Survival, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LDhenson/pseuds/LDhenson
Summary: In the distance beyond City Hall itself rose theWorldBuilding, its golden dome crushed like an eggshell.





	The Dusk Descending

He ran.

Racetrack was to his left; Kid Blink to his right. Like him, they ran in grim silence, broken only by the rasp of harsh breathing and the scrape and thud of boots against uneven pavement.

The same sounds came from behind them—multiple pairs of pounding feet, drawing closer. There was no shouting, either from the pursuers or the pursued. He counted lampposts in his head, watched Petersen's ruined storefront flash by to his right out of the corner of his eye. Overhead, the sky was deep blue and amber, and blessedly clear.

Race hissed under his breath, "Jack—I'se beat—"

"Almost there."

"There's...four of 'em—"

"One block." He closed his fingers a little more tightly around the packet in his hand, his grip sweat-slick against the waxed paper. Three against four; not bad odds really, but the sun was setting fast and there were no benefits to a well-matched fight. Lungs beginning to burn, he pushed himself onward.

A chunk of stone smacked into the pavement at his left heel. Instinctively, he and Race sprang apart; just as instinctively, he reached out with his free hand and snagged the shorter boy's shoulder before they drifted too far away from each other.

As one, the three of them swerved to their right around the next corner. It put the sunset behind them, throwing long shadows out in front, like runner's lanes marked on the cobblestones, though running down the center of the street was strictly out of the question. Blink ducked another thrown rock, his shoulder jostling against Jack's chest. Jack levered him back upright with a forearm.

One stumble and it'd be over. Blink slapped his palm against the remains of the brick wall to his other side, quickly regained his footing.

The old tenement block loomed into sight. Jack glanced up at the empty sky, then the three of them abruptly stopped hugging the right side of the street and darted across it instead, heading for the far corner.

"Sampson!" Jack panted as loudly as he dared. "Sampson!" Behind them, he could hear the footsteps break stride at the sudden sound of his voice.

From the interior of a burnt-out streetcar that lay directly in their path, another three boys sprang out. One wielded a heavy, jagged plank of wood; the other two had slingshots aimed and ready. Jack and his companions swept past them, halted and wheeled to face their pursuers.

Now it was six against four.

The boys who'd been chasing them staggered back, re-assessing their chances. One still clutched a rock, but he paused with it only half-raised.

Race took a step forward, catching their gazes, then meaningfully flicked his eyes to the sky.

They hesitated, traded glances. Jack could practically hear their thoughts. _How long'll this take? And can we still get back in time?_ They shuffled one step back, then two—then turned and sprinted back the way they'd come. The one with the rock threw it anyway, not to strike, but to deter; the two boys in front with slingshots neatly sidestepped it, and by the time they recovered their aim, the erstwhile pursuers were already halfway down the block.

"Thanks, guys," Jack said, keeping his voice low. He shook damp hair out of his eyes, only realizing then that he hadn't yet let go of Race. He did so, leaving Race to smooth out his crumpled sleeve with an air of mock offense, then held out his hand to the boy with the wooden plank.

Skittery lowered his makeshift club and returned Jack's handshake. "'S been quiet, Jack. You'se prob'ly the last ones."

"We'll give you twenty." He pushed Skittery in the direction of Blink and Race, tossed Blink the packet he'd been clutching. "Go."

Jack watched the three of them take off, staying as deep within the rapidly-growing shadows as they could. He nodded to the two remaining boys: Chopper and Toms, both of them good shots. They returned his nod. He'd seen them eyeing the packet with curiosity, but they didn't ask, busying themselves with scanning the sky and streets around them instead.

_...Eighteen, nineteen, twenty._ He took a deep breath, gestured to them, and then it was back to more running. Two blocks and following the el tracks from beneath and threading through an alley, different directions each time. Until, pressed up against the side of the remains of the Postal Telegraph, they peered out across the street at the scorched, wide area that had once been City Hall Park. In the distance beyond City Hall itself rose the _World_ Building, its golden dome crushed like an eggshell.

This was the most dangerous part to run: Broadway and the park were vast and open, although the broken vehicles, smashed masonry from the surrounding edifices, and sorry attempts at provisional shelters—long since abandoned—provided some cover here and there. Jack tipped his head back to the sky and held his breath, listening hard.

Nothing.

He jerked his head at the park and the other two took off towards it, himself following close behind. Crossing the expanse of Broadway, weaving from one pile of rubble to another, they made for the carcass of a large carriage lying almost completely upended just within the scorched lawn beyond the sidewalk. They vaulted the low cast-iron fence and Jack dropped flat, easing himself partway through the small opening between the carriage's frame and the ground, blinking in the sudden darkness. "Sampson," he hissed.

"That you, Jack?"

"Yeah."

Sound of a double-barrelled shotgun uncocking. A dim light flared from below as the lantern was uncovered, casting stripes of brightness on the inside of the carriage.

"Anyone else?" Jack asked.

"You'se the last ones."

He backed out as the grating was pushed up silently on well-oiled hinges. He ushered the other two into the carriage and the ventilation shaft, then climbed in himself.

"Lock," someone whispered, and there was a rustle of movement down the line of boys in the shaft. Jack held out his hand, and the metal padlock was pressed into it. He looped it around the edge of the grating, paused as he did every night.

"Key?" he said.

"Me. Snoddy."

"Right." He snapped the lock shut, yanked on it several times to test. It held. "Go."

Inside, the passageway quickly narrowed until it was only wide enough for one body at a time, so they moved crouching down the sloping shaft single-file. A very tiny bit of daylight filtered in through the metal bars behind him, but it was fading fast, and soon the only light that made it through came from the lantern at the head of the line, blocked and blocked again by the forms of the boys ahead of him. He kept one hand on Chopper's back as they went along.

It took them, ironically enough, partway back across Broadway, opposite the direction in which they'd just run over the surface. There was a slight pause as they reached and collected the next small cluster of guards at the end of the shaft, then they all continued through, more light drifting back to Jack as boys exited the shaft and he got closer to the main tunnel.

He hopped down onto the stacked crates that served as steps leading from the ceiling entrance of the shaft. Descending, he touched bottom in the tunnel proper. This was theirs, their modest kingdom: a circular tube, straight and faced with whitewashed bricks for about a block's length, until it began to curve sideways in a gentle "L" shape for the last eighty-odd paces at the north end; there the walls were iron-plated. The floor was ridged with a set of rusting tracks, bricks laid between. A single dilapidated wooden car sat just beyond the shaft's opening, tucked up against the tunnel's south end. Once an experimental subway before most of the boys had even been born, now it was home sweet home.

As living quarters went, it was by no means either fancy or spacious, as the tunnel was no more than eight feet wide. Still, it was solid and dry, roughly two dozen feet underground, and virtually inaccessible save for the ventilation shaft—and that was so narrow that anyone trying to break in would have a devil of a time trying to mount an attack lined up in single file.

Most important—it was fire-proof.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic borrows the premise, though not the characters or the storyline, from _Reign of Fire_. As the fic is set in 1900, there will naturally be no appearances from the characters of RoF.
> 
> Jack is not Quinn, so this will not replicate Quinn's story.
> 
> The premise of RoF's particular breed of dragons and the destruction they bring remains intact. For a sleeping creature thousands of years old, what's one century more...or less?


End file.
